


The Times He Didn't See

by eloquated



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Study, Drug Use, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16612283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Everyone knows that Sherlock Holmes has a drug problem.Everyone assumes that he's the only one.He isn't.





	The Times He Didn't See

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my wonderful lovelies! I know I've been away for a bit, but winter always comes with a heaping helping of writer's block for me. But thankfully it seems to be leaving, and I have words again! So long, potato brain!
> 
> I've been wanting to do this fic for a while now, but fair warning-- please heed the tags. If drug/alcohol abuse is a problem for you, this might be a fic to give a pass.

**Molly**

“Are you sure he’s alright?  He seems--” Molly couldn’t take her eyes off the man in the corner of the room, his expression manic and bright and his mouth moving so quickly that she couldn’t understand how he wasn’t tripping completely over his words.  He was incandescent, picking apart the secrets of the people around him like a vicious, sparking oracle; and they listened, entranced.

He was, of course, high as a bloody kite.

“Who, him?”  Lindy’s words were lisped around the damp edge of the joint in her mouth, her voice sounding thick with the oily smoke she’d just inhaled.  Molly had never liked the smell, but she liked being alone in her dorm even less, “That’s Shezza, he’s fine. Guess he’s the year ahead of you, one of the Chem students.”  Lindy supplied, and muffled a cough against the inside of her elbow.

Med students, Molly thought, so considerate about germs.  Even when said student-come-roommate was handing her the joint and motioning for her to hurry it up.  “You need to relax, Molls. Exams are killing everyone, why do you think we’re all here? Relax.. Otherwise you’re going to have the worst trip tonight.”  Was the ‘sage’ advice, paired with the ominous rattle of a shiny little tin under her nose. 

“No, I really don’t think--”

There was a pause, and Lindy nudged her side pointedly, making Molly twitch back, “Don’t want to be the only one not having a good time, right?  Just have some fun, Molls. Otherwise you’re going to sit there all night, pining over the junkie with the pretty curls. Which is just pathetic.  You know, I know it. No point repeating the cycle, right? A little molly for my Molly’ll make the world a kinder place.”

Because it was a foregone conclusion and they both knew it.  Men like that didn’t look at girls like her. And she was tired… so tired.  Invisible Molly, weighed down by her father’s illness and the lodestone drag of her double major.  _  Music.. Medicine… Music… Medicine… _

There wouldn’t be any answers in the pastel yellow pill (so bitter tasting, but such a happy colour).  But at least, for a few hours, she wouldn’t have to think about the questions.

**Greg**

Divorced.  Kids gone with their mum.  And he was being outshone by the same stripling genius that he’d once arrested on a drugs charge.  It was fair to say that things in the world of Gregory Lestrade weren’t exactly going according to plan.  

This wasn’t how he’d expected to spend his half-century.  Fifty years old,  _ Christ _ \-- and living in a grotty little bedsit because he’d done the right thing by his cheating ex and let her have the house.  

“Not bloody likely.”  He muttered to himself, and punctuated the first word with the sharp crack of his beer can.  It was a fizzing, liquid sound, and he licked away the spray droplets that had landed coldly on the back of his fingers.  That was what you got for being the nice guy; kicked in the goddamn teeth, and kicked again when you were down.

Fifty felt like ninety, over the hill.  Most of his life already behind him, and what was the point of any of it?  A few commendations, and a bigger office-- simply so the bureaucratic Powers That Be had a place for all the extra paperwork.  

Used to be he had a drink with the boys after shift.  Now he just retreated home and collapsed on the couch, too tired to want to be social.  And one drink had turned into two.. three.. five…

And then it had been easier to start taking the ringed 6-pack into the living room with him, because it wasn’t like he was going to sleep any other way.  Easier. Logical, even. Wasn’t like this was the good stuff, anyway. It was just enough to take the edge off.

Nobody wanted a tired detective.

Sinking down onto the edge of the couch, Greg scrubbed his hands over his face and cracked open his second drink of the night.  He bloody well deserved a drink, after dealing with Sherlock Holmes every day for the last week.

**John**

Winter had come with a spate of measles, and the overtime had consumed his life.  It never seemed to end, one feverish, poxy patient after another; all shambling through his surgery with the same glassy expression and miserable story.  

John’s head was throbbing in his temples, a bass beat agony in time with his pulse.  And the next parent that came in, holier-than-thou with their stories of  _ mercury _ and  _ autism _ , and ‘Of course they weren’t going to vaccinate little Cauliflower, they were raising her organically’? 

Darkly, he wondered if his room mate would mind a rash of anti-vaxxer serial murders, because the good doctor was coming to the end of his sodding tether.  Keep Sherlock off his back, and excited with a new case, and give John a little peace of mind.

Killing two birds with one stone, he thought, and tried not to listen to the sounds coming from the waiting room.  He’d already known it was going to be a long, late night, but that didn’t mean he appreciated the reminder of it.

With a low sigh, John fished through his desk drawer, knocking aside a few spare pens and a thumb drive he didn’t remember throwing in there.  Paracetamol and Co-proxamol had stopped taking the edge of his headaches ages before, but the lovely thing about being a doctor?

Pharmaceutical companies were forever sending tiny, sample boxes of  _ the next best thing.   _ And a certain distributor had been especially generous with the promotion.

“Lucky.”  John muttered under his breath as he unearthed one of the small blue and white boxes, and punched out the three tablets from the sheet inside.  Perhaps the pushers had the right idea after all, putting opioids into just about everything. 

God knew these were the only things keeping him upright these days.

Swallowing the pills down with a slug of cold, brackish tea, John ignored the growing collection of empty boxes in his wastepaper basket and tossed on the new one.  He was a doctor, and he knew what he was doing.

This wasn’t a problem, it was solving the problem.

And he had patients to see.

**Mycroft**

Sherlock was always aware of the dealers when he crossed their path in the gleaming corridors at Whitehall.  They were sleek cats in thousand pound suits, with the confident air of men who knew where they belonged. They didn’t look out of place, because this was their hunting ground -- not the dingy back alleys and basements that Sherlock’s own contacts frequented.

These dealers didn’t stand on Camden street corners, stealthily palming tiny envelopes of white powder to grateful, greasy customers.  And they didn’t fear the Met. 

Greater powers protected them from such mundane trivialities.

No, these were the dealers that dealt in the  _ pure stuff _ .  It wasn’t cut with laundry detergent or baking soda, because their customers expected more.  Expected better. And were willing to pay a fine fee for it. 

Every ecosystem needed a few slugs.

What he didn’t see was the man in the Savile Row suit that never stopped by Mycroft’s office when Sherlock was there.  Patrick was invisible, sliding beneath the radar; an arrogant little man with every right to be. His fortunes had strolled along beside Mycroft’s, and their arrangement was…

Mutually beneficial.  He was possessive over his half dozen clients; their well being was his bread and butter.  Doctors, lawyers, politicians; even a rock star hovering at the top of the charts and wobbling precariously.  But musicians were a dime a dozen, he’d find another when the current fad failed.

“You work too hard, angel.. Look at you.  Exhausted. Well, I’ve just the thing, haven’t I?”  

Mycroft’s eyes felt gritty with lack of sleep as he tilted up his face to look at Patrick, his slow blink holding a wealth of ‘ _ Get on with it’ _ .  He wasn’t in the mood to listen to a sales pitch, not today.  Not when he had a stack of NATO documents on the edge of his desk, and three agents out in the field just cooling their heels while they waited.

It was so easy.  Money crossed the table going out, and a packet of white relief followed the path back.  Just like they’d been doing for years.

He wasn’t an addict, he told himself-- that’s why he didn’t need help.  And this helped him. It was the thing that kept his brain ticking, high alert.

That curbed the gnawing edges of his hunger (oh, his brother could always tell when he cut back-- mocking blaming it on another failed diet.  A few extra pounds and his middle age metabolism always caught up to him too quickly). Mycroft shuddered at the mental image. How disgusting he would be without it.

Kept him awake, because there was always too much work left to do.  Always. A country in need, and need, and need.

It was the heady, euphoric relief. For a few minutes, he didn’t have to care about the skin starved loneliness that clawed under his rib cage.  Or the never-ending work. 

For a few minutes, he didn’t have to worry about Sherlock. 

Mycroft Holmes didn’t have a problem, he told himself as he rubbed the clear packet between thumb and forefinger.  He set his limits, and he played within them. Responsibly.

He wasn’t like Sherlock, who couldn’t say  _ stop _ .  

With a practiced flick of his wrist and the sharp edge of a razor, Mycroft cut himself out a tidy line.  No needles for him. Not usually. Following that path lead to questions he wasn’t going to answer. Signs that other people would see as a warning.

Blithering idiots.

He had just finished putting his things away when Sherlock swept in.  Manic and lovely, his coat flung wide as he rounded the door. A lightning bolt, crackling around his office-- moving and moving and unable to sit still.

Sherlock wasn’t high. 

But Mycroft could feel the glass sharpness at the back of his throat.  The buzz growing in his veins.

“And what demands have you come to make today, brother mine?”

  
  
  



End file.
